


It's the Great Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes!

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [4]
Category: Peanuts, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Case Fic, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Feels, Fictional Royal Family, Halloween, Hanging, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Fluff, Not Kidlock, Peanuts Gang, Suicide, The Great Pumpkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 14,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5039086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Sherlock solve the mystery surrounding Charlie Brown's death and restore Linus's faith in the Great Pumpkin?</p><p>For Halloween. A fusion of BBC Sherlock and the 1966 cartoon "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A thin-haired man in a striped red shirt sits at a desk, hunched over a sheet of paper. He scribbles.

_Dear Great Pumpkin,_

_I am looking forward to your arrival on Halloween night. I hope you will bring me…_

He stops and stares at what he has just written. Then he crumples the paper into a ball and throws it to the floor. He sighs. Then he takes a fresh sheet of paper from an open packet on the desk and begins again.

_Dear Great Pumpkin,_

_I am looking forward…_

Again, he stops and stares. His eyes fill with tears. He rests his elbows on the desk. His head drops into his hands. Tears fall, smearing the ink on the page.

His voice cracks. “I’ve lost everything!”

There is a squeaking in the room. When it stops, the man looks down at the floor.

A white-and-black dog gazes up at him with a doleful expression. It lifts its head and rubs its muzzle and the faded scrap of blue cloth between its teeth against into the man’s leg.

“Even that’s not going to help, old friend,” the man says. “I’ve lost my best friend. I’ve lost my faith. I’ve lost everything. It’s hopeless.” He leans down and pats the dog on the head. The dog pushes the blue cloth into the man’s hand. The man puts the cloth to his nose and mouth and breathes deeply. Then he bows his head over the desk again and begins to sob.

“What am I going to do?” he cries.

There is more squeaking and then the rustling and ripping of newspaper. The man wipes his face with the cloth and looks down.

“What is it, ol’ boy?”

Now the dog has a piece of newspaper hanging from its mouth. The man takes it.

“’Hat-man and Robin,’” he reads. “A private detective?” He looks at the dog. The dog whines.

“He won’t believe me. He’ll laugh. No one believes. Everyone laughs.”

The dog growls softly and then barks once. He nudges the man’s leg with his nose.

“Okay, okay. It’s worth a try. Thanks, Snoopy.”

The dog barks and wags its tail.

_[Cue the Sherlock theme song]_


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah-ha!”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Fuck! Damn it!”

“I caught you, red-handed!”

“Yeah, I’m red-handed because I just spilled a very hot beverage on my fingers.” John shifts the paper cup to his right hand. “Christ, that smarts!” He shakes the fingers of his left hand and then puts them to his mouth. “We’ve got to find you a case.”

“I just solved one! The Case of the Treacherous Former Tea-Drinker!”

John rolls his eyes. “I am a physician. A war hero. A grown-arse man. And there is nothing shameful about…”

“Nothing shameful! Then why did I follow you half-way across London? You didn’t want to be seen too close to Baker Street. People might talk.”

“They do little else, Sherlock. You taught me that.”

“And don’t think that your unauthorized use of a police vehicle made the surveillance any more difficult. It didn’t.”

The door behind John opens.

“Ah-ha! There’s the accomplice!” cries Sherlock.

“Oh, Christ. I’ve got to find you a case.”

“Yeah, Greg. Anytime would be nice,” mumbles John.

Sherlock lurches forward, sniffing. Lestrade jerks back, paper cup in hand. “Fuck!” cries he, looking down. “That’s my good tie!” He dabs the spill with a paper napkin. “I’m due in court this afternoon, you bastard.”

“You have no good ties,” quips Sherlock. “What. Is. That?”

“It’s a s’more latte,” replies Lestrade. “What of it?”

“You’ve never eaten a s’more in your life,” says Sherlock hotly. “You don’t even know what a s’more is!”

“Roasted marshmallow and chocolate sandwiched between two tasty bits of American digestive? I love ‘em. Want to know where—or more precisely _off whom_ —I eat them?”

“Ugh! Ugh!” Sherlock pinches his eyes shut and holds his gloved hands over his ears. “John! Bleach my brain! Quick!”

John holds up his cup and says dryly, “How about I just dump this on your head? It’ll cauterize the wound.”

Sherlock lowers his hands and stares hard at John. “If you insist on indulging your seasonal vice, then I will, too! I’m sure I can find a shop that sells _pumpkin spice tobacco_ between here and Baker Street!”

With that, he turns and hurries away.

“Oh no! Sherlock? Sherlock! Fuck!” John makes to follow him and then looks at his cup. He sighs and steps toward a large bin.

“Hey!” cries Lestrade. “Don’t bin it. Give it to me.”

John hands him the cup. “Find him a case. Now.”

“In court today, mate. Maybe tomorrow.”

John chases after Sherlock.

Lestrade looks at the two cups in his hands. He takes a sip from one, then the other. He smiles.

“Tis the season!”


	3. Chapter 3

“Cluedo?”

“No!”

“We could carve pumpkins. That’s seasonal.”

“Nice try. Medical school, remember? I know the difference between a pumpkin and a cranium painted orange. Fool me twice…”

Sherlock huffs. He turns his head and then jumps and waltzes quickly to the corner of the room. He grabs a harpoon that is propped against the wall. He thumps it on the floor.

“We could play Poseidon and the water nymph,” he says in a low voice. He raises an eyebrow. “Again.”

John’s eyes glaze over for a moment. Then he shakes his head and says resolutely, “No. Not when you’re expecting a client.”

Sherlock frowns.

John smirks. He walks across the room and runs a hand down the lapel of Sherlock’s dressing gown.

“You’re wearing your 700 quid-cashmere-Lord Byron-impress-the-client dressing gown.”

Sherlock turns pink.

John caresses Sherlock’s cheek. “Deduce the world, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll deduce you.” Then he passes by Sherlock and pulls back the curtain. He looks out the window. “Oh, there he is. Don’t you always say that vacillation on the pavement indicates a love affair?”

Sherlock leans over John’s shoulder. “Except when it indicates collection of dog excrement.”

John looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock looks down and shrugs.

“There’s always something, John.”

The doorbell rings.

“Single ring,” says John with a smile.

“Maximum pressure just under the half second,” says Sherlock returning the smile.

* * *

A television plays.

**_On today’s episode of ‘The Weirdo Next Door.’_ **

**_Meet Linus van Pelt._ **

[Footage of Linus leaving his flat, waiting at a bus stop]

**_Eleven months out of the year, he’s an ordinary bloke, leading an ordinary life as a securities trader in the urban centre._ **

[Footage of Linus wearing a headset with microphone, sitting at a desk, looking at computer screen. He’s talking, but his words are muted]

**_But come October 31st, Linus has one thing on his mind._ **

[The footage switches to Linus sitting in front of the camera, talking to an off-screen interviewer]

“On Halloween night, the Great Pumpkin rises out of its pumpkin patch and flies through the air with his bag of toys for all the good children everywhere. Well, children and the young at heart.”

[Linus smiles at the camera.]

**_He sits in a pumpkin patch from dusk until dawn, waiting for this mysterious figure to appear. He has done this every year since he was a child._ **

[Footage of Linus at various ages in a pumpkin patch holding signs that says ‘Welcome Great Pumpkin’]

**_Nothing sways him._ **

[Footage of Linus sitting in a pumpkin patch, in the pouring rain, holding the Welcome sign in one hand and an umbrella in the other; footage of Linus, sneezing and shivering, still holding the sign; footage of Linus, surrounded by pumpkins that have snow on them, wrapped in a sleeping back with just his nose sticking out. Then Linus is speaking again.]

“The Great Pumpkin respects sincerity. Each year, he rises out of the pumpkin patch that he considers the most sincere.”

**_Since he turned eighteen, Linus has been acquiring land where pumpkins are cultivated as well as developing new parcels for pumpkin cultivation. Today his company, The Most Sincere Patch, is responsible for 75% of the domestic pumpkin market._ **

[Shot of The Most Sincere Patch logo]

**_But what makes a sincere patch? Over the years, Linus has tried many things._ **

[Footage of nuns and priests praying in a pumpkin patch. Footage of Buddhist monks praying in a pumpkin patch.]

**_But has he ever seen the Great Pumpkin?_ **

[Linus looks at the camera.]

“No. But next year…”

Sighing, Sherlock picks up the remote control and switches off the television. He is sitting in his chair. John is sitting in a kitchen chair beside him. They are facing Linus, who is sitting in John’s chair. Snoopy is resting at Linus’ feet. He is in a dog wheelchair, a metal frame with two rear wheels. He is looking from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock.

Linus says, “There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin.”

“That footage would suggest otherwise, Mr. van Pelt,” John says gently. Sherlock huffs.

“Yes, well, I've also always thought that the reason that so many people believe in Santa Claus is publicity. So...if…but…” He takes out a paper napkin and wipes his nose. “That was from three years ago. A happy time. A hopeful time.” He looks wistfully at the television screen. His eyes tear. He starts to speak again and stammers.

“In your own time,” says John.

“But quite quickly,” adds Sherlock impatiently.

Linus takes a deep breath. “My best friend, Charlie Brown, died last year. On October 31st. In a pumpkin patch.” He wipes his eyes and sniffs. His voice shakes. “The Great Pumpkin killed him!” He looks down at his lap and folds his napkin. Then he shakes his head violently. “The Great Pumpkin did _not_ kill him! I know it! I know it, Mister Holmes! In my heart. Help me prove it, please!”

Snoopy whines.

Linus continues. “Every year I write to the Great Pumpkin, but this year I couldn’t. Because, because of what I know.” He looks up; his face is pinched. “But what I know must be wrong. The Great Pumpkin could not have murdered Charlie Brown. The Great Pumpkin respects sincerity. He’s a force of good, not evil.”

Sherlock leans forward. “I’ve already solved it, Mr. van Pelt.”

“You have?” He looks shocked. So does John.

“The Easter Bunny did it!”

Linus’s face falls. “You’re laughing at me.” He looks down. “I told you, Snoopy,” he says bitterly. He stands. “I’m sorry to waste your time…”

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson appears with a pair of bowls. Sherlock groans.

“I spied this handsome pup when he arrived, and he looks like he could use some water and a few sausages!”

At the last word, Snoopy’s eyes light up. He pants and wags his tail. She sets the bowls in front of him.

“Here you go.” She pats him on the head. “Good boy.”

Snoopy gobbles up the sausages and laps at the water.

Mrs. Hudson looks from Sherlock to John to Linus. They all look constipated. “Well, I’ll just be going now,” she says and leaves the room.

John looks at Linus. “Why come to us now? This happened a year ago. Surely the police…”

“It was declared a suicide. But I know things, things that the police never knew. I was there. In the patch, of course. I gave them a statement, but I didn’t tell them everything because, because…”

“You were there, and you don’t know what happened?” asks John.

“I fell asleep. I always fall asleep.” He shrugs. Then he nods at Snoopy. “I think Snoopy was there, too. He was Charlie Brown’s dog. He was found the next morning a mile away. He hasn’t walked since then. I’ve taken him to four veterinarians and two dog psychologists. There’s nothing wrong with him, physically. And he’s the most intelligent dog you’ll ever meet. He just won’t walk. Well, his right.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Sherlock. Kitchen.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest.

They go to the kitchen. They whisper.

“Sherlock, you will take the case.”

“No.”

“You will take the case and solve it or your sex life will consist of sad wanking…”

Sherlock huffs.

“...without the use of one of my jumpers…”

Sherlock frowns.

“…until Boxing Day!”

“No!”

John blinks and points his index finger toward the sitting room. “That is a traumatized dog with a psychosomatic limp in there. You will take the case. And you will solve it and you will, you will fix him like, like…”

They lock eyes.

“Conditions,” said Sherlock. John nods.

“One, the unholy amalgamation of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and ginger will never again pass your lips.”

John rolls his eyes and huffs. “No pumpkin spice. Done.”

“Two,” Sherlock looks down at the floor and mumbles quickly, “youwillmakemeas’more.”

John’s lips twitch; then he nods. “Done.”

“And…”

They lock eyes.

“No,” said John resolutely.

“I’m sorry, Mr. van Pelt,” says Sherlock, without taking his eyes from John. “I don't have the time…”

_Squeak, squeak!_

Sherlock and John turn their heads and watch Snoopy shuffle to the fireplace. He moves slowly and awkwardly in the wheelchair. Its wheels squeak. He manages to turn himself around and then backs up, ramming the wall beside the fireplace hard. The vibration shakes the mantelpiece. The skull falls. He buries his nose in the base of the skull and then shuffles to the kitchen. He inserts himself between Sherlock and John and looks up at Sherlock.

With a packet of cigarettes in his mouth.

Sherlock and John stare at him.

Then Sherlock squats down. He takes the cigarettes from Snoopy. He scratches him behind the ears and smiles at him and says,

“Start at the beginning, Mr. van Pelt. And leave no detail out.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, thank you,” says Linus as John hands him a cup of tea. Snoopy is dozing on the floor at Linus’s feet.

John returns to the chair beside Sherlock. He takes up a small pad of paper and a pen.

“My best friend’s name was Charlie Brown. We grew up together. He was a good friend.” Linus puts his cup in his saucer and pulls a photograph out of his jacket. He leans forward, offering the photo to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it.

“Ah,” says Sherlock, turning his head slightly toward John. “One of your lot.”

John raises an eyebrow. He looks at Linus “He was a physician?”

“No,” says Linus, shaking his head with a puzzled look on his face.

“A soldier?”

“No,” says Linus, looking even more puzzled.

“Scottish?”

Linus shakes his head.

“An unfortunate jumper wearer,” says Sherlock as he passes the photo to John. John shoots Sherlock a Look and then looks at the photograph.

[Shot of the photograph in John’s hand of a bald man with a round head in a bright yellow cardigan with a black zig-zag pattern running horizontally around the waist. He’s smiling at the camera.]

Linus continues.

“He suffered from depression, disappointment, his whole life. He would get his hopes up and then something would happen, and he would be down again. It didn’t help that he was bullied quite a bit as a kid. He always had sort of a gloomy outlook. But he was also very naïve sometimes. He didn’t have many hobbies or interests; he drifted from job to job.”

Sherlock huffs and waves his hands. “Moving on, to the night that this chronically depressed person decided to take his own life.”

John looks at Sherlock and rolls his eyes.

Linus takes a sip of tea and swallows. “Every Halloween our friend Violet throws a Halloween party and every year, still, our small circle of friends—former friends, I guess you’d say, we’ve all sort of grown up and gone our separate ways—attends. I am always invited, but I don’t go. I stay in the pumpkin patch, waiting for the Great Pumpkin. I’ve tried different pumpkin patches over the years, but I always come back to the original one, the one I sat in as a child. You see, the Great Pumpkin respects sincerity. And it’s beautiful there, nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see…”

Sherlock grunts impatiently. Linus stops and clears his throat. He takes a sip of tea. Then he takes a deep breath.

“Charlie Brown went to the party. I fell asleep, and the next morning, he was found hanging from the one tree in the pumpkin patch!” He sniffs.

“Found? By whom?” asks John, handing Linus a tissue.

“Thank you.” Linus blows his nose. “By me, of course. Police said it was suicide. There was very little investigation. No one was surprised. No one who knew him. But, but…earlier that day, I’d seen him, and he was happy!” Linus looks up at Sherlock and then John. “He was happy! Charlie Brown was never happy, well, never for long, but that day he was happier than I’d ever seen him.”

John leans forward. “Linus, sometimes when depression lifts, people who have been contemplating suicide finally find the energy to go through with their plans.”

Linus nods. “That’s what Lucy says.”

“Lucy?” asks John. “Your therapist.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes.

“My sister,” says Linus. “She did dabble in psychiatry. And law. But she found her true calling in politics.”

“Lucy van Pelt is your sister?” says John. “Huh.”

Sherlock looks at John with a raised eyebrow.

John says, “Conservative MP. In the news for wanting to abolish zoos.”

Linus nods. “She’s very anti-animal. She had a traumatizing experience as a child.”

Snoopy growls in his sleep.

“I didn’t tell the police everything. I thought I could live with, with what I had done. But Halloween is approaching and I don’t know what to do.”

“What did you do, Linus?” asks John.

“I hung Charlie Brown in that tree! And I did it to cover for the Great Pumpkin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a weird one. I'm beginning to think it might have been better to stay in my warped little head...but thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Linus sets the cup and saucer on the floor. Snoopy wakes and looks up at him. Linus looks down and says, “I’m so sorry, old boy. So sorry.” Snoopy whines. “I fell asleep that night. Like I always do. But something woke me. I looked up and saw, it was only for a moment, but I saw it. I saw the Great Pumpkin killing Charlie Brown!” 

John nods toward the television. “I thought you said that you’d never seen the Great Pumpkin.”

“I hadn’t, before that night. But it was definitely him.”

“Him?” asks Sherlock.

“Or it, I guess. I’ve always called the Great Pumpkin ‘him.’ He had a carved orange pumpkin for a head and a black body. And, and he was strangling Charlie Brown with a pumpkin vine!”

John’s eyes widen. Sherlock yawns, then asks, “What colour was his face, Mr. van Pelt?” 

“Orange, with glowing eyes and a crooked mouth…”

“Not the Pumpkin! Your friend!”

“Oh, uh…”

“Red? Purple? Blue?”

“No, sort of white. Or grey. It’s difficult to say, I didn’t get a good look at him then. Charlie Brown was on the ground. The Great Pumpkin was leaning over him. I was so frightened, I passed out. When I awoke, it was almost morning. I thought it had been a nightmare, but when I sat up, there he was: Charlie Brown, dead, with the pumpkin vine around his neck, and smashed pumpkin all around him. Beside him, there was something scratched in the ground. It said,” Linus sniffs, “It said, ‘The price of insincerity is death.’ I panicked. I rubbed out the message with my foot. Then, with the supplies I had on hand, I cleaned Charlie’s body, and I hung him from the tree. He had mentioned that tree once, a long time ago, when he was especially down. Then I waited and pretended to find him just before Lucy arrived.”

“Linus,” says John, “had you been drinking? Drugs?”

Linus shakes his head. “Nothing stronger than apple cider.” 

John scribbles in his pad.

“I suggest you take your very intelligent dog, Mr. van Pelt, and go home,” says Sherlock quickly. John stops writing and stares at him, but Sherlock does not turn his head. “I have asked you to spare no detail and you are sparing many.”

Linus sputters. He looks down at the tissue resting on his thigh. He unfolds and re-folds it. 

“Why did you hang him, Mr. van Pelt?” barks Sherlock, his eyes boring into Linus.

“Because one time he said, ‘Linus, I might as well kill myself, hang myself from that very tree,’” responds Linus, defensively.

“Why not shoot him or stab him or force him to choke on pumpkin seeds?!” 

“Because the rope was right there—Oh!” Linus puts his hand over his mouth. Then his eyes drift to the wall and he says, as if to himself, “The rope was right there.”  He looks back down at the tissue. Tears fall.

Sherlock squints at Linus. He lends forward and opens his mouth as if to speak. At the same time, John puts a hand on Sherlock’s forearm and Snoopy puts a paw on Sherlock’s shoe. Sherlock looks from one to the other. John and Snoopy look at him with the same expression of warning. Sherlock huffs. Then he throws his hands up and gestures from John to Linus. 

John says, “Linus, the marks on someone who’s been strangled on the ground look very different from someone who’s hung themselves from above. An examination of the body would’ve…”

“I begged Lucy to intervene. I didn’t tell her what I’d done, just that I was traumatized and wanted the whole thing taken care of as quickly as possible. And for once in her life, she didn’t ask questions or berate me, she just did it. Where we are from, it is a small world. The investigator is an old friend. I had the whole patch torn up and replanted soon after. I just wanted to forget.” He clears his throat. “But you see, I can’t forget. The night I lost my best friend, I also lost my faith. I’ve always believed in the Great Pumpkin, believed he was a force for good, not evil. I can’t believe he would do something like, like kill someone, and yet, I saw it with my own eyes. What do I do this year? Do I sit in the pumpkin patch as I always have? And if I don’t, well, then…who am I?” His voice trails off. He looks up at Sherlock, who, in turn, looks at John and Snoopy. They both look back.

“Oh, now you want me to speak?” says Sherlock. “Well, okay, just for a minute, let’s take a walk in this nonsensical world of yours, Mr. van Pelt. Have you been insincere this year? Yes, I’d say that tampering with a crime scene and obstructing justice qualifies, so I suppose this jolly ol’ Jack-o-Lantern will come and polish you off should you dare to sit in your perfect pumpkin patch!”

“Sherlock!” says John, shooting him a Look.

“You’re laughing at me!” cries Linus. “I was foolish to think you could help me!’

“You are a fool if you think you can come here and waste my time!” retorts Sherlock. He leans forward, rises up out of his chair, and hovers over Linus. “You are a sincere man! You put a dog in a wheelchair, for Christ’s sake! There is only one other person I can imagine doing that.” He pivots quickly and glances at John and then turns back. “So please tell me right now or go home immediately, what did Charlie Brown do that was insincere?” 

Linus looks up at Sherlock; his tear-streaked face is red. 

“He fucked some girl! In my pumpkin patch! On Halloween night!”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sits back in his chair with his fingers steepled at his lips.

John asks, “How do you know, Linus?”

“He was a mess. It was dried. And, ugh,” says Linus, with lips curled down.

“You cleaned him up,” repeats John. “You know, sometimes, after death there are emissions…”

Linus shrugs. “It was mixed with glitter. Pink glitter. I’m not a prude, Mr. Holmes. But my pumpkin patch, of all places! And on Halloween night, of all nights! I’ve invested years and vast sums of money in making that area pure—in every sense of the word.”

“Did Charlie have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Someone special?” asks John.

Linus shakes his head. “He had a crush when we were kids, but that was completely unrequited. Other than that, no one, as far as I know. When I saw the glitter, I remember how happy he’d looked earlier that day and I thought maybe he had, well, hired someone. But why would he meet her in _my_ pumpkin patch?! On Halloween night?!” He shakes his head. “There, that’s all of it, Mr. Holmes. And if you still won’t take my case, well, then Snoopy and I had better be going home.” He looks down and Snoopy is no longer by his feet, but rather curled around Sherlock’s feet.

“Thank you, Mr. van Pelt. I’ll take the case. I’ll need the name of everyone who was at that Halloween party…”

Linus nods. “The guest list hasn’t changed much since we were kids. One year, gosh, decades ago, the Prince of Wales actually came. We didn’t even know! His mother was a friend of a friend of Violet’s mother. He just played along with us kids, like one of the gang. Anyway, yes, of course.”

“John will accompany you home.” John’s eyebrows rise. “And Snoopy and I will stay in the city and join you later.” Snoopy raises his head and looks up at Sherlock. He wags his tail. “Mrs. Hudson and I will take care of him.” John’s eyes soften and his mouth twitches in a faint smile.

“What should I do about Halloween?” asks Linus.

“Do not deviate from your usual plan.”

“But, but…”

“Your Great Pumpkin will be exonerated by then.” Sherlock pats him on the shoulder. Then he walks behind Linus. He makes a shooting gesture with his finger and mouths “Take. Your. Gun.”

John looks up and nods. Then he says, “Well, I’d better go pack.” He stands.

Linus wipes his eyes and blows his nose. Then he says, “It’s an amazing place. Like nowhere else. It’s sort of bleak and beautiful.”

John smiles too brightly. “Can’t wait! I’ll bring my camera.” He throws a Look at Sherlock as he walks to the stairs. “And some sugar!”

* * *

[Sound of the front door closing; faint sound of John yelling, “Taxi!”]

Sherlock leans down and rubs his cheek against Snoopy’s ear. He whispers, “You know who did it, don’t you?”

“Woof!”

“Help me prove it.”

“Woof!”

“Where do we start?”

Snoopy turns around clumsily and scratches his front paws up the armchair. Then he nips the photo of Charlie Brown that is resting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. He drops it on the ground, and it flips over. He snuffles at the back of the photo.

[Shot of the watermark on the back of the photo, it reads ONE NOTE STUDIOS]


	7. Chapter 7

“You could see Charlie’s sister first, but you’d best do that by yourself.” 

“I’m going to want to talk to the police, as well.”

Linus nods. “Then I’ll take you to the pumpkin patch.”

* * *

 

A blond-haired woman sits on a cinder block. Behind her is a large rubbish bin. She’s wearing a short light blue dress and white apron with a name tag that says ‘Sally’ in a curled script. Her chin rests on the palm of her hand; her curled fingers hold a cigarette. 

“There wasn’t any inheritance. I mean, he never really made any money. Just sort of puttered about. He was alright, though. Not much ambition, but not a bad guy. Not a bad brother. It was just the two of us, most of the time. Our parents weren’t really around, and when they were it was difficult to understand them.” She shrugs and takes a drag on the cigarette. She blows out the smoke. “No nest egg. I guess he never really wanted to do anything. Or go anywhere. Linus and Lucy left, sort of. Schroder. Franklin. Violet, of course.” She takes another drag. “But not Sally and Charlie. Nope, still here.” She sighs. “Not everyone gets a glass slipper, you know?”

“You were at the Halloween party that night.”

“Yeah. I go every year.”

“See anything unusual?”

“Nah. It’s usually the same. Well, one year, the Prince of Wales came. I missed that one because I was sitting in a damn pumpkin patch with Linus. But, yeah, last year was the same.” 

“Did your brother seem different? Was he depressed?”

“Depressed? You’re joking, right? Yeah, he seemed depressed. He seemed depressed his entire life! His whole outlook was sort of gloomy. I mean, look around you, if you were stuck in this place, wouldn’t you be? Seeing everyone drive by, going somewhere, and you going nowhere.” She coughs and then flicks the ash of the cigarette on the ground. She fixes her eyes on John. “Linus sent you?”

John nods. 

“Why?” she asks sharply.

John shrugs. “Part of his ‘re-establishing sincerity’ plan.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs without smiling. “The nuns and the imams and the monks. The shamans and the digeridoo circles and the troops of Girl Guides and even a Nobel laureate or two. They’ve all come traipsing through that field in the name of ‘sincerity.’ Sometimes they stop by for a cup of coffee or lunch, but they all leave.” She sighs and takes a final drag. “Linus and that stupid Great Pumpkin! ‘Look, Sally, nothing but sincerity, as far as the eye can see!’ What a fool! What an absolute fool!” She stands, and John stands, too. She stomps out her cigarette. “Break’s over.”

“Thanks for talking to me. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“There wasn’t anything I could do for him! He was dead!”

John frowns. 

She shakes her head. “I mean, there wasn’t anything anyone could do. If someone wants to kill themselves, they’re going to do it, right?”

“Right,” says John. “Thanks for your time.”


	8. Chapter 8

[Shot of a sign that says ‘One Note Studios.’ A blonde man is at the door. He takes out a ring of keys then swears. He turns to an alarm panel, puts the keys back in his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper. He hits numbers on a keypad. Sherlock and Snoopy approach. The man startles and looks over his shoulder. He raises his arm as if to strike Sherlock. His swing freezes in mid-air when he looks down.]

“Snoopy! How’s it going, buddy? What are you doing in the city?” He bends down and scratches Snoopy behind the ears. Snoopy wags his tail and leans into his hand, licking at his wrist. “Who do you have with you, pal?” The man looks up.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock extends his hand. The man stands. They shake. “Sorry about that. I’m a bit jumpy. Schroeder. Sherlock Holmes, huh? Private detective, right? I saw your picture in the newspaper. I like your partner’s blog. Where’s the…?” He makes a gesture around his head.

“I hate the hat,” says Sherlock coolly. “I’m investigating the death of Charlie Brown. I want to know more about the Halloween party last year.”

“Have you signed the Official Secrets Act?”

* * *

 

“What is there to investigate? Suicide. Poor Linus found him hanging from a tree.” Schroeder shakes his head. He and Sherlock are sitting in swivel chairs opposite each other. Snoopy is lying on the floor between them. Behind Schroeder are panels of sound mixing equipment and a large window. A piano is visible in the room beyond. “Ghastly stuff, especially on Halloween night. I mean, Halloween is creepy for most people, but Halloween for Linus is like Christmas, but even more sincere. And in his pumpkin patch, of all places!” Schroeder winces.

“Were you surprised that Charlie Brown took his own life?”

Schroeder shrugs. “No and yes. I mean he was always a gloomy kid. Nice, but always getting his heart broken or his feelings hurt. Always believing in something and then getting disappointed or discouraged. Or tricked.”

“Tricked?”

“Have you met Lucy van Pelt?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Schroeder groans. “You’ve got something to look forward to! Lucy is a force of nature. Always has been. She bullied Charlie Brown his whole childhood. She had this one trick where she would convince him to kick an American football that she was holding. He would run and she would pull it away at the last minute, and he would fall on his arse. Every. Single. Time. He never stopped falling for it. She never stopped tricking him. She told him all kinds of horrible, cruel things. Other kids went along with her sometimes, laughing at him. It seemed normal at the time. We were kids. That was the way things were. But looking back,” Schroder shudders, “what a nightmare!”

[The sound of an alarm beeping once. A door opening]

“Schroeder?”

“In here!” calls Schroeder.

A black man appears. Schroeder says, “This is my partner, Franklin. Franklin, this is—“

“Sherlock Holmes! Wow!” Sherlock stands; he and Franklin shake hands. “No hat? That’s okay. I’m a huge fan of Doctor Watson’s blog! The one about the aluminium crutch. Wow! And Snoopy! Hey, partner!” He bends down and pets Snoopy. Snoopy licks his hand. “Oh!” He looks from Sherlock to Schroeder. “Good, good!” He stands.

“He didn’t call me about the break-in,” says Sherlock.

Franklin frowns and looks at Schroeder. Schroeder stares at Sherlock. “How did you know…?”

“New alarm system. Not very secure,” he says, holding up the scrap of paper, “if someone can pick the code off you.” He hands the paper to Schroeder. “You’ll never remember eleven digits. Why not make it into a tune? Something in a minor chord, perhaps.”

Schroeder nods. “Not a bad idea. Yeah, night before last there was a break-in. They didn’t get what they were after, but they tried. But we know who it was. One of your lot.” He looks at Franklin.

“Right,” snaps Franklin, rolling his eyes. “My lot. No difference between a paparazzi and an investigative journalist. So if it’s not about the break-in…”

“He’s investigating Charlie Brown’s death.”

“Really? Not a suicide. You suspect foul play?” Franklin sets a messenger bag on the ground. Snoopy stands up and sniffs, moving closer and closer to the bag. “Yeah, I got a bacon buddy in there, Flying Ace. It’s yours.” Snoopy woofs and digs the sandwich out. Franklin sets a stack of newspapers down on the mixing console and props himself up behind Schroeder.

“Linus hired him.”

“Well, that makes sense. A suicide will make your pumpkin patch insincere.”

“So will a murder!” says Schroeder, looking over his shoulder. “And who would murder Charlie Brown?”

“Lucy?” suggests Franklin. They both laugh.

Schroeder says, “Christ, I wish. Then Mr. Holmes would catch her, and she’d finally pay for torturing poor Charlie Brown all those years. We’re not that lucky. Neither was Charlie Brown. Unluckiest sod you’d ever meet.”

“Earlier I asked you if you were surprised about the suicide. You said ‘no’ and ‘yes.’ What surprised you?” asks Sherlock

Schroeder says, “Well, he was definitely happy earlier that day. That was strange for him. Like I said, he was normally a glass-half-empty kind of person, but I saw him when I arrived. He said, ‘Schroeder, my ships are finally coming in.’ He was smiling.”

“Did he say more?”

Schroeder shakes his head. “I assumed it was about a girl. And later I thought, like always, something had happened, and she’d shot him down. And then he’d, you know, been so devastated that he…”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was probably one of the last to see him that night. He normally didn’t drink that much. A few beers, once in a while. But he was blotto when he stumbled out of that party. I guess he was nervous about meeting the girl, and he was trying to screw up his courage the old fashioned way and just went overboard. And she probably didn’t find a stone-drunk Charlie Brown too attractive and turned him down.”

“Do you know who he was meeting?”

Schroeder shakes his head.

“But it was a girl?”

“Well, to be fair, it could’ve been anyone, but I’ve only ever know him to be interested in girls, one girl, specifically, when we were growing up. She never gave him the time of day. But he, uh, left the party, um, walking like a guy who’s, you know, going to meet someone he’s interested in.”

Sherlock nods, then he looks at Franklin. “You weren’t at the party.”

“Not on the guest list. But he did contact me the day before he died.”

Schroeder looks back at him. “You never told me that!”

“It was nothing. He texted. Said he wanted to talk. Out of the blue. I hadn’t talked to him in years. No animosity, I just never go back there. My life is here.” He puts a hand on Schroeder’s shoulder. Schroeder puts his hand over Franklin’s and squeezes it. “He didn’t say what he wanted to talk about.”

“You took this photograph,” says Sherlock, holding up the photo that Linus had shown him.

Schroeder nods. “Yeah, when I’m not behind a piano, I’m behind a camera. One Note is a photography studio and a recording studio. Only one in the city.”

“Did you take photographs of the Halloween party?”

“I’ve taken photographs at _every_ Halloween party since I was old enough to hold a camera.”

“I’ll need to see those.”

“No.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Not without explicit—and I mean _explicit_ —consent from the hostess.”

“Fine,” says Sherlock. “I’ll speak with Violet Gray.”

Schroeder and Franklin laugh.

“Linus didn’t tell you, did he?” says Schroeder.

“Tell me what?” asks Sherlock.

Schroder shakes his head. “Linus is the king of lying by omission.”

Franklin smiles and looks down at Schroeder, “The only sovereign Linus recognizes is the Great Pumpkin, Schroeder.” He turns to Sherlock, “We know her as Violet Gray. The rest of the world knows her by another name.” He holds up a tabloid newspaper and points to a headline:

**_PRINCESS POPS PAPS! POW-POW!_ **

“Woof!” barks Snoopy.


	9. Chapter 9

“I don’t think you’ll want to go where I’m headed next, Snoopy.”

Snoopy growls.

“I’ll drop you off at Baker Street and let Mrs. Hudson spoil you for a bit.”

“Woof!

“But no getting into her herbal soothers!”

“Woof!”

“Mainly because John would never forgive me.”

“Woof! Woof!”

* * *

“Mr. Holmes, I hope my brother hasn’t been troubling you too much with his imaginings.”

“Not at all.” Sherlock smiles. “He didn’t _imagine_ his best friend dead in a tree.”

“No, I guess he didn’t.”

“Were you surprised that Charlie Brown took his own life?”

“Not at all. He was a blockhead. A first-rate stooge. His whole life. Nice enough, but weak. Gullible. Even to the end.”

“I’m told you bullied him as a child.”

“Bully? Oh, what ugly connotation that word has these days! Some people were born to lead, Mr. Holmes, some to follow. I simply followed my nature. And Charlie Brown followed his.”

“Notice anything different about him the night he died?”

“Nope. Not at all. Same ol’ Charlie Brown. Still thinking he’s going to kick that football. Still falling flat on his arse.”

Sherlock nods and stands. He walks around the office with his hands behind his back, looking at the framed photographs on the walls. “Quite a bit of travel, I see. China, India, South America.”

“By default, the job makes one an ambassador, of sorts. One of my constituencies has a sister city in Brazil. And, of course, there are quite a few trips related to the return of some of our more exotic residents to their native lands.”

“Animals or people?” asks Sherlock cheerily.

“Both,” says Lucy coolly.

Sherlock hums. “I understand that you favour funding high-kill animal shelters.”

“Then you _mis_ understand. I favour putting resources toward human, voter needs and letting furry friends fend for themselves.”

“Survival of the fittest?”

“Something like that.”

“And you don’t think that a lifetime of bullying by you led in any way to Charlie Brown’s death?”

“I don’t think that a high-functioning sociopath is qualified to speculate on something like that.”

Sherlock stares.

Lucy smiles. “Oh, I’ve done my research, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, then, in the spirit of childhood taunting, I must say, ‘Takes. One. To. Know. One.’ Good day, Ms. Van Pelt!”

He strides out of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

“I am sorry about the police, Doctor Watson. I would’ve thought they’d be more forthcoming…”

John waves a hand. “I would react the same if an outsider, and a civilian to boot, came nosing about official business. But, I’ll call for back-up.” He smiles and looks down. He stomps his feet in the muddy ground. “Thanks for the boots.”

“We’ve had a tremendous amount of rain lately. Good for pumpkins. Not so good for navigating pumpkin patches.”

“So the party was held…”

Linus points. “Over there. You can see the brick wall of the garden.”

“Security?”

“Oh yes.”

“And no one saw Charlie Brown leave the party?”

“A few saw him leave, but to my knowledge, no one saw him walk to the patch.”

“And that’s the tree?”

“Yes. After Charlie’s death, I had the whole patch torn up, but I couldn’t decide whether to have the tree removed or not. It’s such a landmark, but then it recalls so many terrible memories. In the end, I was so indecisive that I just left it.” He shakes his head.

A young man runs up. “Mr. van Pelt!”

“Yes?”

“Two busloads of primary schoolchildren arrived. Says they’re here to sing pumpkin carols.”

“Oh goodness!” Linus looks at his watch. “I’m so sorry, Doctor Watson, I forgot.”

“Go,” says John. “I’ll have a look around.”

“Yes, please. Anywhere you’d like.”

* * *

John walks toward the brick wall. He looks back toward the tree and then ahead. He mutters to himself. “Somehow he—and others, his lover and/or the murderer—got from here to there, without being seen.” John looks back and forth, back and forth, all the while marching over the undulating terrain. His boots squish in the mud.

He steps forward and looks back, and his foot slips.

“Hey, hey!” He sinks and then vanishes from sight.

* * *

 

John groans. He pushes himself to sitting. He’s covered in mud, sitting on wet ground. All is dark around him. He looks one way, then the other. A light suddenly shines from above. He looks up. A man’s head appears, looking down at him.

“Howdy, stranger! Looks like you stuck in one of Pig’s pokes!”

* * *

“Thank you,” says John as he crawls up a rope out of the hole. A man in dirty coveralls and a baseball cap is holding the other end of the rope steady.

“No problem. We’ve had so much rain, there are sinkholes everywhere. Pig Pen’s the name.” He tips his hat. “I’d shake your hand, but most folks don’t want to do that, on account of the dirt.” The man’s face and arms are smudged brown.

“John Watson.” He extends his hand, and they shake.

“Well, alright then. What brings you to this corner of the world, Mr. Watson?”

“I’m looking into the death of Charlie Brown.”

“Charlie Brown, Charlie Brown. I miss that blockhead.”

“You knew him?”

“My whole life. Come on, let’s take a walk.”

In the distance, children’s voices are singing.

_Pump-kin-time, pump-kin-time, pump-kins-sitting-on-a-vine!_

“Were you surprised at his death?”

“Well, now he was always a bit of a sad ‘un, of course, but I had the sense that he’s luck was turning around. The very day he died, he was happy about something. He said, ‘Pig, I’m going finally kick that football—and get the girl!’ and I said, ‘Well, alright, podjo, about time life started givin’ you some satisfaction! Yessiree. And then, well…” He shakes his head. “Goes to show, you don’t really know anybody, do you?”

“Back there,” John pointed to the caved in spot in the field, “there was a tunnel.”

“Yup, yup.”

“Where does it lead?”

“Nowhere now, not since Linus had me turn over the whole patch last year and closed that end. But it used to lead from over there,” he pointed to the brick wall, “right to the patch.”

“How many people knew about it?”

“Worst kept secret in town.”

“So that’s how he got out there,” says John to himself. Then he looks at Pig Pen. “You turned over the patch?”

“Ah, I failed to introduce myself properly. Pig Pen of Pig Pen’s Dirty Jobs! If there’s a dirty job to be done, I’m your man. Septic systems, animal kennels, pest control, agricultural jobs, you name it. If it’s dirty, it’s my gig. I’ve done quite a bit of work for Linus and his patch over the years. Last year, we razed the whole business, except for the tree, of course, which was kind of a pity, because just the year before we’d put in a nice new irrigation system. We were in the tunnel quite a bit that summer.”

“We?”

“I got a crew working for me. Charlie, too, when he was in need of a bit of money.”

“He helped with the irrigation system?”

“Yup. And he had just started working at one of my kennels in the weeks before he died. Strange, ‘cause working with animals usually makes people forget their blues, you know? And still he up and offs himself.” He sighs.

“Anything I should know about that night? The night he died? You were at the party. Anything unusual? Besides Charlie’s being happy.”

He stops and tilts his head. “Charlie did say something funny right before he left. He said, ‘Pig, Violet needs to hire you for a bit of extermination.’ I asked Violet about it, and she had no idea what he meant. I looked around, like you do, but I didn't see anything. Rats or snakes or any other critters.”

“Hmm. Well, thanks for your time. I guess I better go get clean."

"Why bother? There's a nice bit of money in stayin' dirty." Pig Pen laughs.

"Thanks again," says John; he starts to walk away.

“Mr. Watson.” John stops and turns.

“I loved Charlie Brown like a brother. He was a good guy and a good friend.” He gives a sad smile. “He shook my hand, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does adult British Pig Pen sound like Larry the Cable Guy? I don't know.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft and Lestrade are sitting side by side in bed. Mycroft is wearing a blue-striped pyjama shirt. Lestrade is shirtless and wearing the matching pyjama trousers. Mycroft has on reading glasses and is reading a book. Lestrade has a remote control in hand and is looking at something off-screen.

“No, no, no!” yells Lestrade. “Prats!” He clicks the remote and throws it down on the bed.

_Beep!_

The men look toward their respective phones, which are on matching tables on either side of the bed.

“Me,” says Lestrade and picks up his phone. He looks at the screen.

“John’s having trouble with his case. The local copper isn’t giving him any joy. Wants the big, bad Yarder to come to…” he squints…”some place I’ve never heard of and get some answers.” He hums.

“Do you want to go?” asks Mycroft.

Lestrade shrugs. “Might be nice to get London out of my lungs. Again.” Then he gives Mycroft a sly glance. “Should I play good cop or bad cop?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Mycroft removes his reading glasses. “Save the good cop for tomorrow. Tonight…” Lestrade smiles wickedly and reaches for him.

_BLEUUUGH!_

“What is that?” asks Lestrade. “It sounds like someone vomiting!”

“My text alert for Sherlock.” Mycroft pulls away and picks up his phone. He frowns and then raises an eyebrow. “It seems he is in need of some help as well.”

“And he’s asking you?”

“Ye-e-es,” says Mycroft slowly.

“Can you help him?”

Mycroft looks affronted. “Of course, but…” He turns to the phone. “It is going to cost him dearly. _Dearly_.”

“Oh my,” says Lestrade, grinning. “Isn’t Mummy’s birthday next month?”

“Indeed it is, and I think a night of Andrew Lloyd Weber accompanied by her most beloved youngest son would be the perfect gift, don’t you?”

Lestrade laughs.

Mycroft leans toward him and bellows theatrically, “ _He is here! The Phan-tom of the Op-era!_ ”


	12. Chapter 12

“So let’s go through what happened that evening,” says John. “You came here, to the pumpkin patch, at your usual time.”

“Yes, right at dusk. Lucy brought me a thermos of cider, as she has, gosh, every year for most of our lives, and I sat, singing pumpkin carols, and just, well, waiting. Alone.”

“What time did you fall asleep?”

Linus shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Any idea what time you woke?”

“No! It’s so maddening!”

Suddenly, there is a loud noise. John and Linus look toward the horizon. A helicopter approaches.

Linus frowns. “I’m not expecting…”

John sighs. “I think that might be for me.”

* * *

[Inside the Palace. A dark-haired woman approaches with a wide smile.]

“Mister Holmes! Doctor Watson! Snoopy! I wish that we could meet in less formal surroundings, but given my nutty schedule today, here really was the most convenient. Come, let’s have tea! And a nice juicy bone, of course, for you, Snoopy!”

“Woof!”

* * *

[The three are sitting. Snoopy is on the floor, gnawing a bone.]

“Thank you for agreeing to meet us, Your Royal Highness,” says John.

“Please call me Violet. Mister Holmes, I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed.”

John smirks. “You thought he’d be taller.”

Sherlock looks constipated. Violet laughs. “No, I thought he’d be in sheet! So sorry I missed that!” Sherlock looks even more constipated. “Doctor Watson, I’m such a fan of your blog. The one about the aluminium crutch is fabulous! You know, your blog is one of the few things I can talk about with my in-laws and not have the urge to throw a gravy boat at someone!” She makes a face. “The Christmas dinners! But you’re not here for me to fangirl. You’re here about Charlie Brown.”

“I want full access to the photographs that Schroeder took of that night and the ones of past parties,” says Sherlock.

Violet nods. “As you can imagine, some of those photographs would fetch quite a high price amongst newspaper tabloids, but I trust your discretion. You don’t think Charlie Brown’s death was suicide.”

“No. You knew him. Were you surprised that he took his life?” asks Sherlock.

“What I feel most of all, Mister Holmes, is not surprise, but guilt. I am afraid as a child I always struggled to fit in and make friends and I often went along with the taunting and teasing of Charlie Brown. Children can be cruel. I was cruel. One year, I even drew a jack-o-lantern face on Charlie’s head, telling him I wanted to use him as model. He was so sweet. He believed, well, anything. And we took advantage of that.”

“We?”

“Lucy, me, others. As I grew older, I realised my error and tried to be kinder to him, but the old memories still haunt me.”

“Did he seem unusual that night?”

“He seemed happy, which was sort of unusual.”

John interjects. “Did you know about the tunnel that leads from your property to the pumpkin patch?”

“That tunnel’s been closed for decades.”

John shakes his head. “Not until last year, after Charlie's death.”

Violet blinks. “Well, that’s a serious breach of security. No, I did not know.”

“And Pig Pen said that Charlie complained of pests at the party.”

“Yes, I don’t know about either. The house is very clean. We’ve never had any trouble with rodents or insects or…”

“The party will go on this year.”

“Yes,” she says with a shrug. “I considered cancelling it, but ultimately decided not to. I thought maybe we could make a tribute to Charlie, to his life. I suppose you think it’s kind of odd for me, in my position, to still be hosting a Halloween party in such a tiny, faraway place.”

John nods. “So why do you do it?”

“Sentiment as Mister Holmes would say. I met my husband at one of those parties when we were just children. We struck up a friendship and began a correspondence which continued the whole of our childhoods. Then after his father died, we met again and, well, the rest is history.” She smiles. “He only attended the one party, by sheer happenstance, but that one party changed my life.”

“One final request,” says Sherlock. “I want an invitation to this year’s party. Well, two…”

She nods. “Certainly, you and Doctor Watson…”

“No,” says Sherlock. John looks askance at him. “Me and Snoopy.”

Snoopy looks up from his bone with an inquisitive whine.

“The World War One Flying Ace is always welcome. And so are you, Mister Holmes. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to do right by Charlie Brown.”


	13. Chapter 13

[Shot of Lestrade stepping out of a car, taking a deep breath, stretching, grinning, putting on his aviator sunglasses, and slipping a gold band off his left hand and into the pocket of his jeans.]

“Honestly, I’m not here to step on your toes,” says Lestrade. He crosses one leg at the knee and leans back in the chair. “It was your case. That’s the beginning and the end of it. But I will tell you that John Watson is a good man and Sherlock Holmes is a great one and they _will_ get to the bottom of this. And if you’re with them, behind them, they’ll make you part of the success, but if you’re in front of them, obstructing them, more often than not, it’ll end up biting you in the arse. And I’ve got more than one set of scars on mine to prove it.”

“I’d known Chuck my whole life,” says the auburn-haired man behind the desk. “I wanted to do right by him and anyone who suggests otherwise…”

“Hey, man, I know. You’ve got a superior who’s got a superior who’s got a superior. There’s a long line of feet on necks.”

“This is a small place, Detective Inspector—“

“Call me Lestrade, please. I’m not here in any official capacity.”

“Lestrade, then. Here every foot, directly or indirectly, is attached to one person: Lucy van Pelt. I mean she’s even got one of her solicitor cronies to represent Marcie in the divorce and they are in the process of relieving me of the last few shillings I have, even though _she_ is the one who ran off with her yoga instructor!”

“I know, man, I know.” He holds up his left hand. “Mine ran off with a P. E. teacher. But, tell me this, what’s going to help you sleep at night?”

The man shakes his head. “I don’t know. What’s sleep?”

“Well, tell me about Charlie Brown. He was your friend, right?”

“Yeah, Chuck and I used to get together once in a while. He’d have a couple of beers, and I’d have, well, a few more than a couple. We’d talk about baseball and how much we hated Lucy mostly. That was about all we still had in common. You know I went to uni with her? A very long time ago, when she wasn’t a MP and people still called me Peppermint. The things she got up to! Well, I guess everybody’s got a past.”

“Notice anything different about him before he died?”

“Now you’re sounding official. We met up a few weeks before he died. Same ol’ Chuck, same ol’ routine: get pissed, watch a game, and talk shit about Lucy.”

“I’m guessing the case file is a bit thin.”

The man rubs a hand down his face. “It makes me sick.”

“Alright, tell me this, what would you have done, if the politicos hadn’t put your bollocks in a vice?”

The man brightens. “I would’ve done the most thorough tox screen that forensics allows. I would’ve had an army of constables go over that patch with a fine-tooth comb. I would’ve put Sally Brown in the box until she told me what she was hiding. Death was by hanging but the body looked, I don’t know, roughed up. Maybe it was animals, maybe it wasn’t. We don’t get many murders in our neck of the woods, but if I didn’t have the full force of Lucy van Pelt on me, I would’ve run the investigation by the book, A to Z.”

Lestrade nods. “If Sherlock and John are on it, you’ll get your second chance.” He stands. “Thanks for your time.”

“Call me Pat,” he says as he stands. He extends his hand. They shake.

“Oh, here,” says Lestrade. He pulls out his wallet. He takes out a business card and turns it over. He takes a pen from his front shirt pocket and scribbles on the back of the card.

“Divorce solicitor. Tell him Lestrade sent you. And I know it’s cliché, but it does get better.”

Pat shrugs. “It’s got to. Can’t get much worse.”

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

John is in the corner of the studio with a mobile to his ear, taking notes on a pad of paper.

“What Franklin told you got me thinking,” says Schroder to Sherlock. “There _was_ something else about Charlie. About a month before he died, he bought a new camera and came here to get me to show him how to use it. He also wanted to learn how to photoshop.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he wanted to put funny photos of Snoopy on his blog.”

“What was his URL?”

Schroeder scribbles it on a scrap of paper. Sherlock hands it directly to John, who takes it and nods. Then he says into the phone, “Okay, okay. Got it. Thanks, Greg.”

* * *

“Uh, there are photos of Snoopy, but nothing that looks manipulated,” says John, turning his phone to Sherlock and Schroeder. Schroeder shrugs.

John hands his notepad to Sherlock, who glances at it, nods and hands it back.

Sherlock turns towards the desk and points to a photo pinned to a board. “Speaking of photos of Snoopy,” he says, “What’s the story behind that one?”

[Shot of photo of Lucy as a child and Snoopy both biting the same apple. Snoopy is wearing a green cap, aviator googles, and a red scarf.]

“That is the pinnacle of my career as a photographer, and I took it the first year I learned to use a camera. We were bobbing for apples at Violet’s Halloween party, and, of course, Lucy had to go first. Somehow, without anyone noticing, Snoopy snuck into the tub where the apples were floating and when Lucy stuck her head in to bob for one, that happened.” Schroeder laughs. Snoopy growls. “Sorry, buddy. It was traumatizing for you and her, but hilarious for the rest of us. She ran around freaking out, yelling about dog germs. That’s when her whole anti-animal campaign started. Right there.”

John leans closer. “What’s Snoopy wearing?”

“Every year he dresses as a World War One Flying Ace and pretends he’s fighting his archenemy, the Red Baron. Hey, buddy, where’s your costume now? Does Sally have it?”

Snoopy whines loudly. “Woof! Woof, woof, woof!” He runs around Sherlock’s feet. “Woof, woof, woof!” He noses Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock squats and rubs Snoopy’s head. “It’s okay.” John looks over at the pair and smiles.

Sherlock looks up at Schroeder, “May we commandeer your studio for the evening?”

“Sure.”

“And I’ll need digital access and large prints of all the photos that you took of the Halloween. Every single one. With time stamp.”

Schroeder nods.

“So the police never looked at these?” asks John.

Schroeder shakes his head. “There was no investigation to speak of.”

* * *

“So there’s Charlie, Lucy, Violet…” say Sherlock, pointing to the photos, which are pinned around the room.

John adds, “Sally Brown, Charlie’s sister, Pig Pen, the bloke who told me about tunnel.”

“There’s me,” says Schroeder. “Pig Pen took it. You can tell by the smudge.”

“But who,” says Sherlock, pointing to a reflection on a window, “is this?”

Schroeder looks closer. He shakes his head. “Let me see…” He goes to the computer and pulls up the photograph. He enlarges the section of the window. “Let me invert it.” He taps the screen. “Shit! How could you even tell…?”

“I observe,” says Sherlock.

“Yeah, Christ, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but it looks like Red. She wasn’t invited. I didn’t even know she was there.”

“Red?”

“The little red-headed girl that Charlie was in love with his whole life.”

“Her real name?”

Schroeder jots something down on a piece of paper and hands it to Sherlock, who hands it to John.

* * *

 

John stares at a computer screen. “Christ,” he swears under his breath. Sherlock turns and looks at him with a raised eyebrow. John says, “She was fished out of the Thames eleven months ago. Drug overdose. She was a dancer at a place called the Spearmint Rhino.”

John stands and grabs his jacket.

“Where are you going?” asks Sherlock.

“The Rhino’s my gig,” says John curtly. He pats Snoopy on the head as he walks toward the door. “Watch his six, Snoopy.”

“Woof!”

“Oh, wait. I need your card,” says John.

Sherlock frowns, but pulls out his wallet. He gives John his bank card.


	15. Chapter 15

_THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK!_

[Music with a heavy bass playing. Waitresses with trays of drinks moving between tables. A stage with a scantily-clad blonde upside down, writhing around a pole. John marches up to the edge of the stage. The blonde’s body is undulating toward the floor.]

“How’s it hanging, Clara?” shouts John, over the music.

“A little to the left and two inches off the ground, just like yours, motherfucker. Tell Harry she ain’t never gettin’ that cat. That’s one pussy that’s staying where she belongs!”

“Not here about Harry. You know a dancer named Red?”

She nods toward the side of the stage.

* * *

[Backstage]

“Yeah, I knew her.”

“She use this stuff?” John runs a finger along the mirrored vanity; when he holds it up, it’s covered in pink glitter.

“We all use it. Makes us _sparkle_.”

“Remember if she worked last Halloween?”

“She was here, but then she disappeared. Everybody was pissed because we had to cover for her. I ain’t nobody’s Bo Peep, you know what I mean?”

John hides a laugh. “Know where she went?”

Clara shakes her head. “Said she was going to make some bloke’s dream come true.”

“She have a boyfriend?”

“Nah, it wasn’t like that. Whatever she did, I know she got paid for it.”

“How?”

Clara points an angry finger at John. “’Cause we don’t do nothing for free, motherfucker!”

John holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Know anything about her death?”

“Nah.”

“She do drugs?”

Clara shrugs. “You do what you gotta do to get through this life. She was scared, though. That last week. Something caught up with her. Twitchy. Looking over her shoulder. Not showing up for work. I figured she owed somebody some money, and they came calling. The old fashioned way.”

John nods. “Thanks. And here.” He hands her some money and turns to leave.

She counts it quickly. “Two-hundred and twenty quid! What’s this for?”

“A phone. Changed my life. No, _saved_ my life. Thank you.” He smiles at her and stands. “Keep ‘em shiny, Clara!” He leaves.

“WATSONS!” shouts Clara, but, a moment later, her face is reflected in the mirror. She’s looking at the doorway behind her with a smile. 


	16. Chapter 16

“It’s all here,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the room around them. He walks to one end of the display of photos. John, Schroeder, and Snoopy watch. “This was taken early in the evening,” says Sherlock, pointing. “Look.”

“A thermos flask,” says John.

“I suspect it is the one that Linus said that his sister provided him. But please send him the photo to confirm. And look at that.”

“What’s _she_ doing with it?”

“Exactly. Not friends, are they?”

“Nope.”

“Here’s she’s dressed as…”

Schroeder interjects, “Ichabod Crane, but later for the costume contest…” He walks to the middle of the display. “…she was the…”

“Oh my God,” says John. “Headless Horseman! Linus hasn’t seen these photos, has he?”

Schroeder shakes his head. “He didn’t want to be reminded of…”

“Send him this one,” says Sherlock. “Ask if he recognises the figure.”

“Oh God, Sherlock, why? Why?” asks John.

“I may have been wrong about something, John.”

“Really? About what”

“I’ve always thought that bitterness was a paralytic.”

“Do you think she…?”

“No. Here’s Lucy in costume.”

Schroeder says, “Yeah, she makes the same joke every year: that one’s costume should be in direct contrast to one’s personality. It wasn’t really funny the first time she said it. She’s always a witch. Har, har.”

“You have photos of her from previous years?”

“Sure. Uh, here’s year before last. Here’s three years ago.” He clicks on the computer screen. “Snakes, bats, spiders.”

“Odd for someone who professes to hate animals. What is that?” asks John.

“Last year she had this little dry ice machine,” says Schroeder. “Made a little spooky cloud around her. She loves to be dramatic.”

“Compare this photo,” Sherlock went from one end of the display to the other, “with this one, John.”

John frowned and looked up at Sherlock.

“Woof! Woof! Woof!”

An alarm blasts. The room goes dark.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“Get down!” shouts John.

_GRRRRR!_

[The sound of doors opening and slamming shut twice.]

“Here,” says Schroeder. Suddenly, the room is illuminated with light an emergency lantern. Sherlock has a messenger bag in hand. He quickly dons gloves, grabs a plastic container, and rushes to the front door of the studio. He opens the door by the tip of the handle.

Snoopy is at the front door, panting and wagging his tail. His mouth is streaked with blood. Schroeder comes behind Sherlock and holds the door open by the top of the frame. “Christ, you got whoever it was good, Snoopy!” he cries. “I’ll hire you as a guard dog!”

Sherlock drops. “Good boy! And you got a skin tag. Perfect. Here. Open.” Sherlock rips open the plastic bag. “Let’s take a sample. And a swab. Yes! Good job. We’ll take this to Molly right away.”

“Woof! Woof!”

“Where’s John?” asks Schroeder.

“John loves a chase,” says Sherlock. John appears in the distance. He’s walking back to the door, panting. “He got away, Sherlock.”

“No matter. Snoopy got what we need.”

“Hey, Snoopy!” calls John, smiling. “Where’s your wheelchair?”

Snoopy yips. He looks behind him and yips again. His wheelchair is gone. He runs around in a circle, yapping and panting and wagging his tail.

“Come here, you mangy mutt,” says John, with outstretched arms. Snoopy leaps into them and licks his face. “I know that feeling, buddy. It’s the best feeling in the world.” John's eyes are shining. He towards Sherlock until Snoopy is wedged between them. Snoopy licks and snuffles at them both. Then he howls into the night.

“Hold that pose. I’ll get my camera!” says Schroeder.


	17. Chapter 17

[Shot of Sherlock and John walking into an office.]

“Ms. van Pelt is in a meeting.”

“Oh, that’s too bad!” says Sherlock. Lucy appears in the hallway in the distance with a group of people.

Sherlock says under his breath, “Morbus comitialis.” Then he falls to the ground.

John says in his doctor voice, “Don’t panic! He’s got epilepsy. Let’s just get him on his side.” He loosens Sherlock’s shirt collar and looks at his watch.

[Shot of Sherlock writhing on the floor. Then a pair of high heels come into view.]

“You’re not as smart or as invincible as you think you are, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looks up. “Neither are you, Ms. van Pelt.”

* * *

“Got what you need?” asks John.

Sherlock nods. “Final confirmation. Stay with Linus. Make sure he doesn’t eat or drink anything that anyone gives him. Anyone.”

“Sherlock, I don’t like you being in that party without back-up.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have Snoopy.”

* * *

Linus and John are walking through a field. The sun is setting behind them.

“I don’t understand the photos that you sent me, Doctor Watson.”

“Don’t worry about it right now, Linus. Let’s just wait for the Great Pumpkin.”

Linus sighs.

* * *

It is dark. A bright, round moon shines behind John and Linus.

“Here we are, Doctor Watson, with nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see. And for once in my life, I’m not sure that that is enough.”

“It’s a terrible thing to lose your faith, Linus, but if anyone can help you get it back, it’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“If nothing else, I am grateful for what you both did for Snoopy. He’s a changed pup.”

John smiles.

“Would you like to sing pumpkin carols, Doctor Watson?”

“No, thank you, Linus.”

Linus looks at his watch. “It’s strange. It’s rather late, but I’m not sleepy at all.”

Suddenly, there is a loud rustling amongst the vines. John reaches for his gun.

“What’s that?!” exclaims Linus. “What’s that? Is it the Great Pumpkin? He’s here!”

There is a dark silhouette against the moon.

Linus falls onto the ground in a faints John takes aim.

Then second smaller silhouette appears and a voice says, “John!”

“Christ, Sherlock! I nearly shot your head off!” John tucks his gun back in his jeans. “What are you wearing?”

Sherlock tips his cap and straightens his uniform. “I am the Red Baron. And this is my formidable archenemy, the World War One Flying Ace.”

“Woof!” Snoopy jumps up. He’s wearing his aviator cap and googles and scarf.

“Apply your smelling salts to Mr. van Pelt and bring him with you,” says Sherlock. “It’s time.”

* * *

“Did he leave us any presents?” asks Linus, blinking.

“Come, Linus,” says John. “Let’s go.”

“No, no, I have to stay,” says Linus in a confused voice. “I always stay.”

John pats Linus on the back. “You need to go. For Charlie Brown. We can come back when it’s over.”

Linus follows John. John follows Sherlock.

“This way,” says Sherlock, leading them to a large hole in the ground in the middle of the patch. The three have to duck through the entrance, but they soon come a spot where they can stand.

“Who re-opened the tunnel?” asks Linus.


	18. Chapter 18

Guests are murmuring in a dark room. Suddenly the lights go on. Sherlock is standing in the centre of the room. The photographs from Schroeder’s studio, including the one of Snoopy and Lucy and the apple, are hanging on the walls.

“Linus did not hire me to find out who killed Charlie Brown. Linus hired me to find out if the Great Pumpkin killed Charlie Brown,” begins Sherlock.

Linus turns red. The crowd titters. 

Sherlock turns to Linus. “The Great Pumpkin did not kill Charlie Brown.” Sherlock holds up a photograph of a dark figure with an angry jack-o-lantern for a head. “Who is this Linus?”

Linus takes a deep breath. “That’s the Great Pumpkin! That’s who I saw strangle Charlie Brown on Halloween night!”

There’s commotion on one side of the crowd, and a voice saying, “Sally, you’re not going anywhere.” The crowd parts. Linus walks forward, where Sally is being held by Pat. 

“Linus, buddy,” says Schroeder, pointing to the photograph. “That’s not the Great Pumpkin. That’s Sally. She was the Headless Horseman last year.”

“You killed your own brother!” cries Linus at Sally, who is struggling in Pat’s grip.

“No!” yells Sally. “He was already dead! I didn’t kill him!” 

The crowd gasps. 

“This photo of you earlier that evening,” Sherlock holds up another photo of Sally with a hand on an orange thermos flask, “shows you tampering with Linus’s apple cider. You knew, as most of you did, of his rituals. They never changed, year to year. You drugged him. Rohypnol, probably. Then you went out to the pumpkin patch that night to scare him.”

“Why?” cries Linus. “Why would you do something like that?”

Her face turns purple. “Because I fucking hate the Great Pumpkin! Do you know what it’s like? To turn on the news or open a newspaper and see her?” she points to Violet, “And know that if I hadn’t spent that one night a thousand years ago with you in the pumpkin patch, it would’ve been Your Royal Highness Sally Brown! I missed trick or treats that year! I missed the Halloween party! I missed meeting my Prince Charming! I’ve been stuck in this stupid place my whole life and it’s all your fault, Linus! You and that stupid Great Pumpkin! So yeah, I drugged you and went out there that night to scare you! But when I got there, he was already dead!”

“You strangled your own brother with a pumpkin vine!” cries Linus. 

“He was already dead! I swear! I thought, ‘Charlie Brown never did anything for me alive, but dead he can help me turn little Linus’s dream into a nightmare!’” She screams at Linus. “Why should your dreams come true? None of mine ever did!”


	19. Chapter 19

“You’ll be in the papers now, Ms. Brown,” says Sherlock. “Tell us the whole truth. Where was your brother when you found him that night?”

Sally tilts her head and then nods.

“Hanging from that tree. I untied him, lowered him, and dragged him to where Linus was sleeping. I wrapped a pumpkin vine around his neck. Then I kicked Linus awake and did my pantomime of killing him. Linus opened his eyes for a bit, but he didn’t stay awake for long, not as long as I hoped, anyway. I smashed my pumpkin head there, scrawled the message on the ground, and left the way I came, through the tunnel. I didn’t know what to do with the rope. I didn’t want to have it with me, so I left it there.”

Pat looks to Sherlock. “But how did Charlie Brown get back in the tree?”

Linus bows his head. “I put him there. I woke and saw the scene and put Charlie in the tree. The rope was right there, ready. I didn’t want the Great Pumpkin…”

“You didn’t just hang him back in the tree, Linus,” says Sherlock. “You did something else.”

Linus turns red. “I cleaned him up. He, he had glitter on him.”

The crowd titters.

“Glitter from this woman,” says Sherlock, holding up the photo of the woman’s face in the window. “Most of you knew her.”

“Red!” says Pig Pen, scratching his head. “Son of a gun!”

“Exactly,” says Sherlock. “What did you say that Charlie Brown said, Mr. Pig Pen, ‘I’m going to kick that football and get the girl’? Everyone has said that there was only one girl in Charlie Brown’s life, the little red-headed girl. And here she is. We can’t talk to her because she died last year, not long after Charlie Brown did. She was a dancer at a club in the city. Someone paid her to come here and lure Charlie Brown to his death in the pumpkin patch. And then someone got rid of her.”

The crowd gasps.

“Now we come to the first part: kicking the football. Who was Charlie Brown? Everyone has described him as nice but gloomy. You’ve called him pessimistic and depressed. No one was surprised that he took his own life, but most of you were surprised he did it that day. All who saw him the day he died, save two, have said that he was _not_ himself, that he was happy. One of the exceptions was you, Ms. Brown, and the other was you, Ms. van Pelt.”

Lucy rolls her eyes.

“Why was he happy?” continues Sherlock. “Because he was finally going to get revenge on the person who had bullied him his whole life. Charlie Brown, by everyone’s accounts, had no hobbies, no major interests, no career goals. But before his death, he developed all kinds of new interests. He wanted to learn to use a camera, to photoshop. He started working at an animal shelter. He reached out to an investigative journalist. How was he going to ‘kick that football’? He was going to get revenge on you, Ms. van Pelt!”

“Ludicrous!” cries Lucy.

“He learned something about you from one of your old uni pals.” Sherlock looks at Pat. “An old story, told over too many beers, and it stuck in his head as something he could use to ‘kick that football.’ But everyone has said that he wasn’t very smart. And he wasn’t a very smart blackmailer. He took photos of animals at the shelter and photoshopped you with those animals, Mrs. van Pelt. With the current Prime Minister’s pig incident still fresh in the public’s mind, he thought it wouldn’t be difficult to stir up some scandal and tarnish your name. You have a reputation for being anti-animal,” Sherlock holds up the old photo of Lucy and Snoopy, “he was going to paint it as a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much.’”

“Your story is ridiculous, Mr. Holmes. But even if that blockhead had tried something like that, no one would believe him. And I could sue him for slander,” says Lucy.

“That night he showed you this!” Sherlock held up a printed page in a plastic sleeve.

The crowd titters.

“That is not real!” cries Lucy. “That’s not real!”

“Of course it’s not,” says Sherlock, looking at the paper. “A toddler could create a more realistic manipulation. Plus, a Saint Bernard? Really? I’d figure you more for a pincher girl.”

The crowd laughs; Lucy fumes.

Sherlock says, “Charlie Brown wasn’t a very smart person, but no one knows a tormentor better than the person that they torment. He knew there was a grain of truth in his fabrication. And he was talking to a journalist who might talk to someone from your past, say, uni, who could tell them a real story. And who maybe could unearth a real photograph. And that would ruin your life. So you had to stop him.”

“You’re mad!”

“No, you’re mad, Ms. van Pelt, if you think I can’t count.” Sherlock holds up one photograph. “There are twelve spiders here on your costume.” He holds up another one. “There are eleven here.” He holds the first photo up. “Dry ice.” He holds up the second. “No dry ice.” He holds up the first photo and points. “This is a Brazilian wandering spider, which you obtained on one of your recent visits to South America. You used the dry ice to keep it sluggish until you needed it. You let it bite Charlie Brown. He complained to Pig Pen about pests. It would have caused pain, and then loss of muscle control, breathing problems, and priapism. Schroeder thought that Charlie Brown was drunk, that he was walking with an erection because he was excited about his rendezvous. He wasn’t drunk. He was poisoned. You poisoned him! You poisoned him, Red lured him to the pumpkin patch via the tunnel, then you came up behind him, slipped the rope around his neck and pulled! You had to get rid of Red, of course. There was not enough money in the world to keep her quiet forever.”

“Liar, liar!” cries Lucy. “I’ll sue!”

Linus suddenly he comes to life. “How did all this happen and I not see it? I was right there!”

Sherlock says, “She’s been drugging your Halloween cider for years, Linus. That’s why Sally’s plan didn’t work as well as she envisioned. She didn’t realise there was already a sleeping draught in your bottle.”

“He’s a liar, Linus!”

“How do you feel tonight, Linus? I told Doctor Watson to keep a careful eye on what you consumed today.”

“Not sleepy at all. Lucy, is this true?”

“This is nonsense. He won’t get away with telling these lies about me.”

Sherlock turns to Lucy. “You had one problem: the spider got away from you as evidence by the missing one in the later photographs. Where did it go? You assumed it ran away, but you couldn’t be sure. You ensured that the whole patch would be dug up and the tunnel collapsed, just in case; ostensibly to help your brother but really to help you hid the last of the remaining evidence that could incriminate you.”

“Unfortunately, for you, the spider didn’t run away. Snoopy found it. He killed it and buried it with his World War One Flying Ace costume in the tunnel. He buried it, but not before it bit him, too. By the time he had recovered from his initial shock, the tunnel was gone and he was in no state or position to retrieve anything. How much he saw of you, Charlie, Red, Sally, and Linus, that night I don’t know and what part of his injuries were the poison and what part were trauma….” Sherlock shrugs and pats Snoopy on the head; Snoopy whines and then barks.

“But, at the end of the day a beagle is a hound and hounds sniff. And earlier today, with his faculties restored and with the help of Mr. Pig Pen, Snoopy dug it all up: this photoshopped picture, which Charlie Brown put in the best hiding place he knew, under Snoopy’s aviator cap; the whole Flying Ace ensemble; and this!” Sherlock hold up a plastic bag with a large spider in it. “The murder weapon!”

The crowd gasps. Lucy cries, “Preposterous story!” Snoopy lunges at her and rips the bottom of her costume. Then he runs behind John, who is stationed by the door.

“There’s more proof,” says Sherlock. You hired someone to try to steal these photographs from Schroeder’s studio. They weren’t successful the first try so you went back yourself. Snoopy bit the burglar in the leg; that’s a very nice bandage you have there, Ms. van Pelt. I saw it earlier today when I wallowed around on your floor in my epileptic fit. I collected a sample of your DNA from Snoopy’s mouth immediately after the bite; it’s only a matter of time before we prove that you’re the one who broke into the studio and shot at us.”

“Lucy!” cries Linus. “What have you done?”

Everyone in the room is quiet.

Lucy laughs. “He was a blockhead! He was a stupid, gullible blockhead! No one was going to believe him! Ha, ha! What a buffoon! Why are you all staring at me? You laughed at him! You all laughed at him!”

“No one’s laughing now, Lucy,” says Linus.

Pat steps forward. “Come on, Lucy. Let’s go down to the station.”

“Are you actually arresting me?!” she cries. Pat puts a hand on her back and leads her toward the door. Sherlock follows them. As they near the door, Lucy lunges at Sherlock.

“No!” screams Sherlock.

A gun goes off.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt at casefic. Thanks to everyone who has taken this journey.

“Linus, you’ve got to go back. The police are going to want your statement, and you’ll have to face the consequences of tampering with a crime scene.”

Linus nods. “It’s three hours to daybreak, Doctor Watson. Pat knows where to find me. Hell, everyone knows where to find me on this day. Wasn’t that part of problem? I made it easy for people to manipulate me because I’m so fixed in my routine. An easy target.” He shakes his head. “For the next three hours, I belong here. Maybe the Great Pumpkin will rise out of this pumpkin patch, and I can tell him how sorry I am for ever doubting him. Sincere repentance is still sincerity, and that’s what the Great Pumpkin respects.”

John stands and walks toward the entrance of the tunnel. He shakes his head at Sherlock and Snoopy. “He’s not budging.” Then John looks at Snoopy. “I don’t know if you were protecting Sherlock or avenging Charlie Brown or just lucky, but that was a pretty good shot, if I do say so myself.” He pats Snoopy on the head.

“Woof, woof, woof!”

“She fell on her own gun, John,” says Sherlock. “When she lunged for me.”

“Right,” says John. “Strong moral principle, history of military service, nerves of steel, sound familiar? Takes one to know one.” He looks over his shoulder at Linus. “I’m going to keep him company. It’s just a couple of hours.”

Sherlock nods and starts to walk back up the tunnel. Snoopy sits and whines. Sherlock looks back at him and gestures for him to come. Snoopy doesn’t move. He whines again.

“Okay, okay, a couple of hours,” says Sherlock.

“Woof!”

* * *

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you’ve certainly earned your fee,” says Linus. “You solved the case and cleared the name of the Great Pumpkin, regardless of what it did to the name of van Pelt.”

“I’ll consider waiving my fee under one condition: that you allow John and me to share in the caretaking of Snoopy.”

John stares at Sherlock. Then he smiles.

Sherlock continues, “He will be helpful in our work, a scent-hound. That is, of course, if he’s amenable.” Sherlock looks down. Snoopy yaps and runs around in circles, wagging his tail. He licks Sherlock’s hand.

“You’ve got a deal, Mr. Holmes. Whatever happens next, I don’t expect I’ll always be able to give Snoopy the home he deserves. I don’t know how long it will take, but once this ugly mess is I behind me, I might travel a bit, discover other places in the world where sincerity is valued and pumpkins are cultivated.” He smiles. “Well, only a couple of hours now. Shall we?”

* * *

Linus opens his eyes. He looks over at John and Sherlock and Snoopy, who are all leaning against the tree, still asleep. Snoopy is tucked under Sherlock’s coat, snoring. Linus looks at the horizon; Pat is approaching. Linus takes a deep breath, stands, and walks to meet him.

* * *

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. He frowns.

There are three burlap sacks on the ground at their feet. The sacks are tied closed with pumpkin vine, and the burlap is decorated with pumpkin seeds.

John reaches for one bag and opens it. “This one has a large ham bone. Must be yours, Snoopy.”

“Woof! Woof!”

“This one has a…What is this?” John hands the box to Sherlock.

“A reagent kit,” says Sherlock.

John laughs. He opens a tiny tin and sniffs. “…and some violin rosin and…”

Sherlock grabs the bag from his hands, reaches in, and pulls out a thin box. “A new lens.”

“Like for the microscope we have at the flat?” John asks with a smile. Sherlock hums.

John opens the last bag. “Jumper…” He pulls it out.

“…of the not-so-hideous variety…” says Sherlock, nodding.

“…and a tin of very nice tea…and…a s’mores kit!” John laughs. “We can’t ever tell Linus that the Great Pumpkin visited his patch while he was gone.”

“Indeed.”

* * *

“Sir, you’ve got a vine snagged on your trousers.”

“Yes, I’m afraid the whole ensemble will need a thorough cleaning.”

“How did it go, your return to the field, so to speak?”

“Splendidly. These days, of course, I normally eschew any kind of legwork, but when one is afforded the opportunity to play Father Christmas—or the autumnal equivalent—to one’s baby brother for the first time in decades, well, one makes an exception.” Mycroft knocks on the partition. “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.”

“S’mores night, sir?”

* * *

Sherlock and John walk across the pumpkin patch with Snoopy trotting between them. The sun is rising behind them.

“So what will you call this one?” asks Sherlock.

“I don’t know,” says John. “'The Hound of Baker Street'? 'The Pumpkin Patch Predicament'? Or maybe just…

‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes!’”

“Woof!”

THE END

[Cue a mash-up of the Charlie Brown and Sherlock theme songs.]


End file.
